


Only the Darkest Light (Can Deliver My Love)

by RoadkillJackdaw



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: August Prompts, Choking, Curses, Fairy Tale Curses, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Geraskier, Just covering my bases folks, M/M, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Witch Curses, and there was only one bed, please don't let forgotten realms sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:55:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoadkillJackdaw/pseuds/RoadkillJackdaw
Summary: How to fall in love in 31 prompts. Titles from August writing prompts by Writealm, updated as and when I get time and dedicating a chapter to each prompt to spin a tale of longing and heartache and lust.In the early days of the escapades of the bard and the white wolf, money is tight. How they make ends meet leads to magic, mischief, and perhaps the odd monster.First work on this site, CC appreciated!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	1. Modest

**Author's Note:**

> Notes at end of chapter

Geralt, for all his prowess and ferocity, was a modest man. 

He never bragged, seldom boasted, and wouldn’t dream of singing his own praises. It was why he covered his scars - there were few things he hated more than some half-drunk half-wit fawn over the criss-crossed mess and insisting on being told the stories behind them. It felt practically masturbatory. He found no shame in them, but didn’t feel any pride either. It was simply part of the job. Kill something nasty, claim payment, stitch himself back together and carry on. Better yet, don’t get hurt at all. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Jaskier, on the other hand… 

Jaskier had no sense of modesty, humility, or shame. Flamboyant to a fault, he’d crow about his muse’s latest accomplishments from dusk till dawn at every shit hole inn or tavern they ended up in for the night. To him, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, champion of justice and protector of the innocent, was the greatest man the continent had ever seen. Every encounter with something nasty became an epic ballad when it burst from his songs. The weakest of ghouls could be the most savage of beasts for all he cared, and Jaskier took great pleasure in spinning his yarn to breaking point for the sake of dramatics. Geralt could barely contain his protests when the bard debuted his new songs on a monthly basis. Even when he did express his disapproval, Jaskier would simply smile and wink, the slant in his shoulders drawing Geralt's gaze to where his much repaired doublet was unbuttoned to reveal an equally patched chemise. His hands would blur while they strummed his lute strings with unbridled glee.   
“C’mon, Witcher. People eat it up when they hear of your adventures, and your purse has never been fuller. That, and it reminds people they’d do well to treat you right rather than run you out of town. Don’t add poor self esteem to your already significant image problem. Where’s the harm in it?” 

Geralt was forced to agree. Indeed, it was a nice change to actually be paid and better still when he could stay in a bed at the inn rather than in the stable with Roach. He quieted his reservations, scaling them back to mere glares at gross fabrications and grunts at the more ludicrous claims. 

The witcher making coin meant the bard could do the same, so he swallowed his modesty and sat in the corner of the room with his clay cup of beer before him. Shockingly, it wasn’t bad; better than the usual piss he was served. No doubt because Jaskier was the one who had bought it for him. The bard was tearing up a small storm in the tavern, wandering between tables with more grace than he had any right to possess. He was leading the crowd of locals into the final chorus of some bawdy song with an ungainly quantity of thinly veiled metaphors. The corners of Geralt’s mouth tilted up every so slightly as Jaskier sagged dramatically in an attempt to convey his exhaustion to the crowd. It had been a profitable set, sure enough, but this was likely the best entertainment the town had seen all season. They weren’t ready to quiet down just yet. 

“C’mon, pretty boy, you’ve got one more song in you!”  
“You were just getting to the good bit!”  
“There’s another drink in it for you if you sing that one about the Maid of Toussaint…” 

“My friends!” Jaskier managed between mouthfuls of wine. His cup was balanced precariously on Geralt’s table, saved from falling only by the witcher’s perpetual grace. “As tired and broken I may be, I could never leave an individual wanting!” He turned once more to Geralt and threw him the most lecherous wink he’d ever seen on a human. Quick as a flash, he was gone, wine and lyrics spilling from his lips as he began his rounds again. The wink caught Geralt off guard, and he drank deeply to disguise this. His confusion went unnoticed with the rest of the room turning their attention to their prized performer. He’d flit like a bird from one patron to another, only to disappoint each of them in turn as he’d move on. Geralt felt an unfamiliar pang beneath his sternum as tried not to dwell on whether the bard would do the same to him. 

What they didn’t earn in cold coin would be earned in drinks, food, perhaps even kindness from the villagers. It was more than what the witcher was used to making do with, and as suspicious as he was to the bard’s intent he would be discrete about looking a gift horse in the mouth. Jaskier worked a silver tongue with the same skill Geralt wielded a silver sword and they worked far better as a duo than either had expected. The witcher grunted not unkindly as his companion made eye contact across the room, recognising the unerring notes of Toss a Coin sweeping across the room. The praise was for all the wrong reasons, but the bard’s self proclaimed greatest work was a favourite of the continent and would haunt the pair at every turn. It’s titular character nodded a silent thanks as another drink slid his way across the table. 

Wine. Too rich for his taste, but no doubt it would be to the bard’s liking. He refrained from sending it back and simply tucked it behind his own cup for safekeeping until tonight’s bread winner came back to him. 

No, he smirked. Geralt was a modest man. But, in the face of applause and adoration, Jaskier most certainly was not.


	2. Olivine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of the Writealm August prompts - Olivine. Jaskier loses something, Geralt finds something.

When they had first met, Geralt marvelled at Jaskier’s ability to sleep. 

Perhaps “ability” was the wrong word; most species had figured out the not-so-intricate intricacies of closing one's eyes and ignoring their brain for a time. No, Jaskier could curl up in an endless string of places and positions and sleep so soundly that on a few occasions Geralt had found himself counting the seconds and waiting for the younger man to resume breathing.

Not long after the two agreed to travel together (or, Geralt stopped actively trying to encourage the bard to fuck off), the witcher found that this trait was infectious. He’d find himself sitting in front of his campfire and feel himself able to relax. His eyes would drift and his shoulders would droop slightly, and he slept better than he had in years.  
The two were on some nameless back road, somewhere on the way to Oxenfurt. It was not yet summer, and every morning the spring dew would seep into their clothes and woke them with the scent of growing earth. Jaskier would recline on whatever was closest to him to tinker idly at his instrument, and Geralt would feel like he was releasing a decade’s worth of tension in a single exhale. Serenity would wash over his bones like waves on a white sand shore. Breathing came easier. The nights passed less tumultuously. Geralt no longer feared what he might see when he closed his eyes. 

Initially, it irked him - surely the bard was inhuman, or an incredibly well disguised mage. But the medallion was still whenever Jaskier was near, and nothing of the man indicated ill intent. No, rather, he seemed completely oblivious to any change in the witcher. Perhaps he assumed the sour disposition was less a mood and more of a personality trait. 

But a week in, Geralt accepted it. He never felt any worse for it, and the finer quality of slumber certainly improved his mood whenever he would replace Roach’s saddle each morning. They hadn’t much further to travel, another two days if they made good time on the crossing, a fact that he reminded Jaskier of as the bard took his time packing up his bed roll. 

“Jaskier. Hurry up or get left behind.”  
“Geralt, my pendant.” He fretted, shaking out garments and scrambling around the campfire where he’d sat the previous night. Leaves flew as his apprehension climbed. “I’ve lost my pendant.”  
The witcher didn’t bother to conceal a sigh. Perhaps his sour mood was as permanent as the bard thought.  
“Whatever bauble you’ve lost, I’m certain you can live without it.”  
“No, no, no, you don’t understand,” Jaskier’s breath hitched as he squatted on his haunches and turned his pack upside down. “It was a gift, the last thing Maddie gave me before I left for school - you must have seen it, Geralt.” He implored. Even when faced with Filavandrel and his people, Geralt had not seen Jaskier as fraught. The bard's still wet razor clicked in his meticulous grooming kit, his face visibly raw from where he had shaved. The witcher rolled his eyes.  
“Jaskier, I’m leaving. You need to learn to travel light.” His heart twisted strangely at his own words and he fought to ignore the ache in his chest at his companion’s distress. Jaskier choked but waved his hands.  
“Go, go I’ll catch up. I’m not leaving until I find it.” 

Roach whickered gently, nudging her head into Geralt’s shoulder as if to remind him they needed to go.  
He needed to go.  
He should go. 

He should - 

“What does it look like?” He resigned himself to losing their head start. Geralt surprised himself nonetheless by having his words come out without any bitterness or resentment. It was unclear if Jaskier noticed.  
“It’s a green circle, a disc with a black string through the centre. Long, so it’s usually under my clothes.”  
“Would you take it off to sleep?”  
“No. Never. I can’t sleep without it.”  
“Hmm.” 

Geralt moved to stand beside the bard and cast his eye around the campsite. It was hopeless trying to find it in Jaskier’s bag; the man was alternating between methodically searching and flinging his possessions in random directions. His hands raked through his damp mop of chestnut curls.  
Ah.  
Wordlessly, Geralt turned away from the fire and drew in a long breath. Pine, woodsmoke, and somewhere close; moving water. He strode off in the direction as the sound of the wide stream, no more than fifty paces from where they’d splayed their bed rolls and hidden by a screen of gorse and budding hawthorn. A large flat stone jutted out, with small puddles despite the dry weather. The scent of Jaskier’s shaving lather hung in the air from when he had set down to wash. Geralt could almost picture the bard emerging from the water, lithe and sopping wet, relishing in momentary nakedness after days of mud streaked travel clothes. Sitting on the rock and watching as a king fisher streaked past. Muscles shifting delicately beneath porcelain skin as he would stretch and air dry before redressing…  
There. The flicker of green-yellow shone through the water, almost indistinguishable from a fragment of sea glass. Jaskier’s pendant sat in a shallow pool just waiting to be plucked and returned to its owner, with a cord snapped part way up. 

“Jaskier.” He waved a gloved hand to his companion, who was almost on the verge of tears. Jaskier whirled around practically sagged with relief when he saw the stone carefully suspended from his witcher’s glove.  
“Nehaleni’s tits, you found it. You actually found it. You did your witchery thing and magicked it back from wherever the fae stole it from.” Jaskier babbled as he snatched it back and kissed it. It looked larger in his hands than it had Geralt’s neatly fitting into the centre of his palm. If he were looking he may have spied the gentlest suggestion of a smile on the witcher’s lips, but the bard was too busy fumbling with the string to even notice.  
“Looks like it snagged whilst you were having a wash. You can get a better chain when we’re in Oxenfurt.” The bard ruffled his hair to shake free the water droplets that had gathered on the ends.  
“I’ll make it my first job. Oh, Maddie would have skinned me and used my shrivelled stomach as a purse if I’d lost it.”  
“Unusual colour.” He observed. “What is it?”  
“A type of Olivine. Used in steel manufacture because… I don’t fucking know. Anyway. This is peridot. My sister, Maddie, gave it to me to keep me eloquent and creative.” He paused to give a welcoming hand gesture and a lopsided smile. “As if I could be anything else.”  
“A lovely thought.”  
“I thought so.” Jaskier fluttered his eyelashes, lips oh-so-barely parted. “It seems you’re my hero again, dear Witcher. What can this dear heart possibly do to repay you?” Geralt’s mind froze for a moment. Roach, almost sensing the oncoming lapse in judgement, brought him back to reality with a raspberry as if to convey her impatience.  
“You can keep up.” He answered shortly, stalking towards his horse. 

The rest of the day passed with little in the way of obstacles, Jaskier tutting at his lute from time to time and humming to himself. From the top of Roach’s saddle Geralt remained in his leather armour from neck to toe, not even conceding his gloves. As the sun rose, Jaskier rolled up the sleeves of his doublet as best as he could and drank in lungs full of spring air like a drowning sailor.  
“What was the name of the stone again? I’m curious how something so unusual helps steel works.”  
“Olivine. Or peridot. The latter is easier to pronounce.”  
“Are you calling me uneducated, bard?” Jaskier’s gaze slid to Geralt and his music came to a stop.  
“Is the great Geralt of Rivia, the white wolf himself, trying to make a joke?”  
“I make jokes all the time. It’s not my fault they diminish when they’re standing beside you.”  
“Well I do say.” The music resumed as Jaskier hummed a few bars. “It allegedly has emotionally balancing properties, as well as it’s inspiring nature. That, and it helps those with troubled sleep. It really brings out the blue in my eyes...”  
It was Geralt’s turn to pause, Roach all but stopping beneath him. A handful of seconds trickled by before he remembered himself and urged the mare on. Perhaps it was worth paying a mage in town a visit, or even a blacksmith. On the off chance it was the olivine that improved his sleep, it would be more than worth trying to find some of this unassuming stone of his own.  
His eyes fixed on the nape of Jaskier’s neck, seeing how the hair curled there and sent brown tendrils just over his ears. The bard rolled words around on tongue, matching syllables to rhymes and repeating the process until he had art spouting from his very lips. 

Or, maybe, he could try and keep an eye on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up, a smidge longer than the first.  
> Again, feedback greatly appreciated.  
> Comments and kudos appreciated!


	3. Atmosphere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their trip to Oxenfurt for some much needed supplies drains their joint funds faster than expected. Some interesting sleeping arrangements may be required.  
> (Part 1 of 2)

He wondered if Jaskier knew just how sensitive his sense of smell was. 

The pair - with Roach in tow - walked through the western gate of Oxenfurt towards the city proper. Geralt knew it was not the bard’s usual route, favouring the markets to the slums, but the witcher preferred it. It allowed him the best view into how the city was fairing for itself. That, and the reception made by those with lower social ramifications than the upper classes was indicative of how he could expect to be treated. In times past, he fancied he’d been able to smell the resentment and anger coming from the locals like waves. Overwhelming both of those however would be fear. Fear what of the unknown, fear of what havoc the witcher could sow, and fear of what his presence implied. His nose and ears sent messages to his gut when it was time for him to leave quickly, and Geralt liked it when he had a warning. 

This time however, the atmosphere was amicable as they wove through the streets made all the narrower by the painted buildings on either side of them. They were treated with a few odd stares, as was to be expected for a towering witcher and gaudily dressed bard. Other than that, they were left unchallenged. Each of the pair passed a small sigh of relief. 

Every day was market day, and as the streets widened they grew no less full as they passed into the city’s square. Early afternoon made the air heavy with the day’s dust and pollen despite the spring chill. The melody of a blacksmith’s hammer rang across the space, harmonising with the hundred voices and the chorus of merchants attracting attention to their wares. Bodies moved before Geralt like a swirling mass of brightly coloured birds, each of them smelling different and unique and tainted by the stench of fish from the southern docks. There was so much information he was almost at a loss how to process it.  
“Oh look, Gilmore has new silks in! Indulge me and come along, I cannot imagine the prices he’ll try and swindle from me…” Jaskier tried to seize the witcher’s arm, startling him from his overload. He staggered forward a pace or two before grinding to a halt. Jaskier turned to face him, mouth a small “o” shape after being startled mid sentence.  
“Geralt?”  
“No. It’s too…” Too noisy? Too busy? Too populated? Too alive?  
“Talk to me, Geralt.” Jaskier reached forward and put his arm to the witcher’s elbow. On instinct, the larger man flinched away, unable to process the mass of life around him.  
“Roach. I need to stable her and we should find where we’re staying tonight.” He recovered quickly. If Jaskier thought it was odd, he gave no indication and grimaced as if chastising himself.  
“Of course, I forgot your unhealthy attachment to the beast, who for some reason is immune to my charms. They’re right when they say that pets start to look like their owners. Or maybe it’s the other way around.” With no change to his flourish Jaskier took it upon himself to steer Geralt through the crowds and towards the taverns of the city. The entire street was where travelling merchants and traders would rest their heads for the night, and occasionally the hopeful applicants to the nearby colleges. Those who already had places were permitted to sleep in the accommodations within school grounds, but the same courtesy was not given to those who may yet turn out to be disappointments.  
Geralt tied Roach to a post on instinct alone before slamming himself through the door of the closest building - a cracked sign above it declared it to be the Hog and Truffle. The bard followed and flapped away any concerns with a gesture of his hands.  
“Divine tits, it has been too long since we had a decent meal. Are you serving food this early?”  
A small man, barely past the witcher’s shoulder, managed a watery smile.  
“Why wouldn’t we be when it’s such a fine day? There’s stew piping away and whatever breads my niece is able to pick up.”  
“Excellent, good sir. We’re looking to stable a horse also, the fine beast on your front.”  
Coin changed hands and before Geralt knew he was sitting with his back to the wall with a mug and a bowl in front of him. The bowl steamed, full of overcooked vegetables and questionable spices. It smelled heavenly.  
“Thank you.” He said to no one in particular. It was early enough that the place was relatively quiet, and though the noises of the market filtered through the windows it was a far cry from the volume it had been but a few moments ago.  
“Anything for my White Wolf.” Jaskier mocked a bow from where he sat, gesticulating with his spoon. Geralt grunted absently and ignored him in favour of continuing with his food. Life on the road was grand for a time, but nothing beat a meal he hadn’t had to catch himself. 

Maybe half an hour passed til their stomachs were fuller, and the witcher found his head clearer. Jaskier was chatting idly over the bar to the man's niece, a lass of no more than fifteen. She was clearly awestruck by the bard, giggling at every word out of his smiling mouth and enamoured by the lute that lay on the bar between them. Jaskier, for all his womanising, seemed deliberately oblivious, and kept motioning back to Geralt and asking questions about her studies. He smirked at the bard’s not so subtle attempts to derail her misguided advances as he complimented her dress as he asked who taught her to sew. The duo managed to secure a pair of rooms relatively close to one another, at a reduced rate if Jaskier promised to perform for a few hours during dinner hours. He cast a practiced eye over the room and babbled about his “performance space” and how lovely it would look with a few candles lit. A rumble came from Geralt’s chest that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.  
“Alright, bard. Are we heading back to the market? Perhaps your silk merchant will want to swindle you some.”  
“But of course, and it will give me a chance to work on my set list for this evening!” With a hearty slap on the bar and the faintest grunt from the witcher, the pair left the Hog and Truffle for the main square once more. “What do you think I should open with, the hag’s revenge or Sweet Lady of Bone?”

It felt like a never ending list of places to go - of the three herbalists in the city, Geralt had to visit all of them to find ample stock of his potion ingredients. Jaskier was enthralled by each purchase and delightedly mispronounced the names of every single one. He asked their properties, what they were used for, how they were prepared, how they tasted. The witcher gave as brief a response as he could, warning his companion at every opportunity that the elixirs were not for human use.  
“Why do you want to know these things if you’ll never use them?”  
“Because, dear heart, how am I to write about your conquests if I do not understand the road you travel to get there?” He winked and juggled the bundles of Skellige lavender until Geralt snatched them from him and scowled.  
“I can’t brew shit if you drop them in horse muck. Come on, we’ve places to be.”  
They continued on, catching the tailor only as he was rolling up some of his finer wares.  
“Gilmore, darling!”  
“Julian, could it be you!” The portly man threw his arms up and laughed in a way that made his jowls quiver. Jaskier accepted a hug and fussed at the older man’s feathered cap.  
“It’s been too long.”  
“I can see that. Your shirt may as well be held together by pixie gum and horse hair.”  
“You would be shocked how true that is.” And it was. The bard’s finery had not been designed to withstand the hardships of life on the Path, and his elbows had needed darned so often Geralt wondered why he had bothered to leave the sleeves on. Jaskier had accepted it without a word of complaint, but seeing the younger man’s fingers wander over the teal fabrics on display made him realise how much it upset him to be in such a sorry state.  
“You’ll make a poor performer in nothing but rags. What can we find for you?”  
“The answer to that, my friend, will be determined by the contents of my purse.” The leather bag clicked apathetically. The bard’s face crumpled as he peeked inside. “Shite.”  
The witcher felt a pang of guilt - the money was shared, but he knew for a fact a great portion of it went toward his components and a new whetstone. True enough, those were things that they needed. He couldn’t fight monsters with a dull blade and no oils. However, the money had been earned by the pair of them.  
“If your songs could pay my taxes, I’d make your finery in a heartbeat.” Gilmore seemed genuinely saddened by the bard’s poverty. Jaskier masked his disappointment with a dashing smile after the briefest moment of self pity.  
“No sense in grief, dear friend. I have a performance this very night at the Hog and Truffle. I’ll no doubt drum up enough for some garments that haven’t been dragged across the continent.”  
“Then I shall save something in your colour for tomorrow. Take care, Julian.”  
Some light browsing later and they parted ways to return to the inn in time for the evening’s charade. Despite there being no change in the air around them, Geralt felt a shift in the atmosphere. A strange sense of guilt and the bard’s uncharacteristic hush made even the master of silence itself uncomfortable.  
“I’m sorry, Jaskier.” He managed, trying to alleviate the sadness that spiked through the bard’s tone. Jaskier blinked owlishly at him.  
“Whatever for?”  
“The money. It was for both of us, but a majority seems to have gone towards me.”  
“Oh, tish tosh.” He laughed and it felt like the sun itself had come out from behind the clouds.  
“I’ll look at local contracts tomorrow and pay it back within the next few days -”  
“Geralt, dear heart, I’ll sing my way to a new shirt without a problem. You’ve been counting precious sprigs of hollyhock for a fortnight now, and if I can be honest it’s been doing my skull in. No, this is on me.”  
The air brightened and smelled almost sweet, of gratitude. Geralt wasn’t sure which of them it came from.  
“Thank you, Jaskier.”  
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” He smirked devilishly and continued their way back to the inn. “Come on Geralt, can’t keep my benefactors waiting!”

The common area was far from empty, but far from packed also. It had been perhaps two hours since Jaskier’s set had started, and the coin was barely enough to keep him in stew. People paid for drinks, sure, but it wasn’t booze they needed. From the corner he eyed Jaskier as he rolled his neck and began his next song.  
A commotion at the bar caught his attention, seeing the short man from before holding his hands out defensively as a flaxen haired woman began scolding him. He made his way over to hear better.  
“There has to be a mistake. I booked a room the last time I was in the city, and it’s only right you honour that!”  
“Begging your pardon, Miss, but there’s simply no beds!” The woman grunted and rolled her eyes, fingers drumming on the bar top.  
“So what, you gave it away? I’ll not find anywhere reputable at this hour. Where do you propose I sleep?”  
“There’s, uh…”  
“Everything in order?” Geralt rumbled, keeping his tone light. He propped himself against the bar in a casual fashion. The woman turned to him and stood to her full height, which unfortunately for her was not impressive.  
“I booked my room weeks ago, and it seems I have nowhere to stay. I don’t suppose you know of anywhere that might be open for trade? Preferably without pigs.” At the last word, she glanced at the inn keeper behind the bar. He couldn’t tear his eyes from where her fingers drummed on his bartop. Geralt felt the medallion hum beneath his shirt. Mage. An idea formed in his mind.  
“I’m staying here for the night.” He shrugged, gesturing with his cup towards the stairs. The mage rolled her eyes and grimaced.  
“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever had the god’s pity of hearing.”  
“What? No, no.” Geralt back tracked. “I have a companion, in a separate room. Should our friend here -” he gestured to the frightened man. “- agree, you give me the coin you should have paid for the room and I’ll simply share the room with him.”  
The mage considered him for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the innkeeper.  
“It seems there’s a solution after all. Agreed?” He nodded in mute terror and shook her hand. Coin changed hands, whereupon she took the room number and stalked off; her fine hair fluttering in the breeze as she passed. The innkeeper heaved a sigh of relief.  
“You’ve done me a right favour there, master witcher.”  
“It’s not entirely for you.” He hummed to himself as he placed the coins in the leather pouch. “What’re the chances of a further reduction for the room as a thank you?”  
“I can’t go much lower, I’m afraid.” The man shook his head sadly. “But I can have your meals included. There’s not much fat on either of you, and my girl does excellent food.”  
“Deal.” Geralt finished his drink and was immediately passed another one before he turned back to his seat. His bard would have new colours after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer one this time, so I've taken the liberty of breaking it down into two chapters rather than the bulk of just one. 
> 
> A penny for your thoughts and a dollar for your insight, but a fortune for your kudos <3


	4. Atmosphere (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the previous chapter. Some platonic fluff to ease the Wednesday blues.

Another hour passed. Jaskier was done in for the evening, greedily drinking the hot water with honey before him to save his throat for the next day. Geralt leaned back in his chair. His forearms crossed in front of him, demonstrating his closed off nature, but his rolled up sleeves betrayed at least some feelings of ease. 

“Poor crowd. Hopefully I’ll get more tomorrow night.” 

“I’ve added a little to the pot, but there’s a snag.” He tossed the purse onto the table. Jaskier’s brows lilted quizzically. 

“You can’t have slain something already, you haven’t even left the room!” 

“Not quite.” Geralt explained the mage’s predicament, and the trade off that meant the innkeeper got to keep his bar in one piece. 

“Dear heart, you’re a star!” Jaskier all but flung himself at the witcher. “So what’s the snag? You’re sleeping in the stables?” 

“No, I -” Geralt hesitated. Was his friend so averse to sharing a room with him? “I’d thought perhaps I could share the room with you. I have my bedroll on Roach, if you’re particular about privacy -”

“No, no!” Jaskier waved his hands hurriedly, wafting the steam from his tea before Geralt’s nose. Even from this distance he could tell that the concoction was spiced with sugar and perhaps with cinnamon. Goodness, the innkeeper's niece really was sweet on his - the - bard.  
“I can’t have you sleep in any old stable, after your sacrifice. We’ll share a bed, should you wish, keep our heat as well as our coin.”

Geralt felt his heart relax at this. At least the thought of sharing his space with a witcher was not too repulsive. 

He had feared it, at first. Many people sought to give him space, willingly or otherwise, and he was more than used to people moving to the other end of the room so as not to breathe the same air as him. No sense in Jaskier being any different - 

“But of course, Geralt! Wherever I have a bed, you shall too.” Jaskier beamed at him, nudging his narrow shoulder against Geralt’s as if to prove a point. 

He wasn’t afraid of him.  
And he was… Happy to share a room with him. 

The thought left Geralt drinking deeply into his cup to avoid thinking about it further.  
Just how strange could this man be? 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was perhaps a few hours later. The pair had sat downstairs, with no shortage of drink thanks to the grateful innkeeper, talking amongst themselves about everything and nothing. The bard was divulging some of his training - his experiences at his home, his tutors between there and Oxenfurt, and the time he’d spent at the university. Geralt commented where appropriate; sneering at the teachers and chortling at Jaskier antics. 

“I’m shocked they didn’t kick you out sooner.”

“Their stance on my approach to learning has nothing to do with it! Someday, they’ll welcome me back with open arms and hail me as one of the greatest minds of the county. Nay, the continent!” Jaskier finished his umpteenth ale in a single mouthful, waving the cup in a circular gesture around the bar. “Anyone who has been fortuito- fortununia- lucky enough to hear my dulcet tones ring through their skull should be countersigning my references and hailing my worth.”

Geralt smirked and moved both of their cups closer to the end of the bar. The room was almost empty with only the innkeeper’s niece and a boy of around ten years old collecting dirty plates from vacant tables. The air around them smelled of smoke from the dying fire and whatever honey had been in the bards tea.

“You can tell them that upon the morrow. For now, you need your beauty sleep. C'mon, you.”

“I’m not some wench you can cajole off to your bed -”

“Trust me, I know. Let’s go, you.” With a hand between the bard’s shoulder blades Geralt steered a compliant Jaskier up the narrow flight of stairs. The witcher was far from drunk himself, as was his way, but the way the bard tripped over his own feet reminded him to not take advantage of the innkeeper’s generosity. He could only guess as to what state the younger man would rise in the next morning. 

The room was clean enough, the bed frame clearly having seen better days but serviceable nonetheless. To the left of it a small window hung on the middle of the south-facing wall, showing the Hydrus constellation suspended from the sky. Geralt made no move to light the candles, relying on his natural dark vision to see.  
Jaskier, however, was not so lucky. His shins crashed into every obstacle they could find. A whine of discontent accompanied every impact, resounding between the wooden walls. He sighed. 

“Jask, just settle on the bed, c’mon -”

“What did you just call me?” 

“...Jask?” Geralt steered the younger man onto the mattress, settling him into a sitting position. 

“I like that.” He mused, muzzily, settling himself down. Geralt looked away as he fumbled for the clasps on his doublet. Modesty, whilst not part of his curriculum, was a skill he has acquired over his time travelling the continent. “Jask is a nice name.” 

“Of course it is.” The bard swung his legs into the narrow bed, wriggling out of his boots. 

“Damn right. It’s my name, Any name of mine is a nice name.” He flopped onto his side, eyes closed to the sight of Geralt gazing at him reproachfully. Even when drunk as a skunk Jaskier spouted no end of self-indulgent nonsense. 

“Tuck yourself in, bard. I’ll set up just over there -” 

“Geralt, you crested tit, I said you can share the bed.” Jaskier wagged a finger at him firmly. “Where I sleep… you can sleep. I’m a man of my word.” 

“You’re a man of many words. And I’ve known you to spout right shite when necessary.” 

“Yeah well. Occupational hazard.” Jaskier moved to remove his trousers and threw them onto the floor beside his boots. By Geralt’s estimate that put the younger man down to his undershirt and smallclothes, but he was very deliberately averting his eyes. “Are you going to stand there all night, you big lug, or are you going to get undressed and get your arse into bed?”

“For all your professions of being able to charm the skirts off every noble you meet, I have to say that was a little lacklustre.” Nonetheless, Geralt moved to the other side of the bed and shucked his boots. The bed itself was a sight narrower than a double, but not quite a single. They could share this no problem. No problem at all. 

Jaskier flopped around on the bed like a landed fish until the coarse blanket was yanked up to under his chin. It tangled around his legs in a ludicrously convoluted fashion, and Geralt resigned himself to going without for the evening. He didn’t mind; he naturally ran fairly warm anyway and it meant there was another layer between him and the bard. A gesture of civility. 

“If I was seducing you, you would be powerless against me. I am a siren, a fae, and you couldn’t stop me if you tried.” 

“I forget how cocky you are when you’re drunk.” The witcher arranged himself to lie facing away from Jaskier, towards the south window, still fully clothed. Jaskier snickered. 

“You said cock.”

“Go to sleep, Jask.”

“Mhmm.” Came a sleep thickened grunt from behind him. He sighed contentedly, leaving Geralt to revel in the peace within the four walls. The atmosphere was serene with the silence comforting his mind like no blanket ever could. Soft snores grunted from behind him, and for the first time since they entered Oxenfurt all those hours ago, Geralt could appreciate the calm around them both. 

At last. Peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Life stuff happened. Shock, I didn't keep to my writing schedule. So for now, I'll upload chapters retroactively and beg for your forgiveness. Much love, weirdos x


	5. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some roadside musings from the bard with enough sentimentality to choke on. Set a week before chapters 3 and 4 (Atmosphere part 1 and 2).

A few days before they had reached Oxenfurt, Jaskier poured over some of his old scribblings and briefly thought of the reams of paper he covered in ink and vodka wherever he’d drifted over the years. The manor he’d grown up in, his room at the university, the fragments of notebooks that angled into his back from the bottom of his pack on the road. No matter where he’d rest his head, he managed to fill his mind and his hand with words. It would make anywhere feel like home. 

What is a home? 

Jaskier (or Julian, or Dandelion, or Buttercup, or Jules if you were his youngest sister) could say "home" in a thousand different ways. Home was where you came back to, where you returned to after your most recent adventure where there’ll be a warm fire and a hot meal waiting. Home is where you know the cracks in the plaster like the back of your hand, where you know where to find every spice in the cupboards, where the quirks of a place are not an inconvenience but simply part of the charm. Home was familiarity and most importantly, comfort. 

Home didn’t have to be a single house, or room. It could be a city, a university, a whole building. Somewhere where you spent time willingly, and walking back into it’s open arms was the greatest relief. Home was feeling like you had returned to where you felt at your strongest. Home was walking across the threshold and feeling the ache in your chest as if you’d been kept under water for so long and had finally stolen a lungful of fresh air. Home was sanctuary. 

Sometimes, home had no walls at all. Home was the open sky, where you could be your own true self. Home was the feeling or release, freedom, and tied to no set place. Jaskier marvelled at this as the campfire crackled but a few feet from him. Home was where you could be the version of yourself that hid behind nothing. No falseness, just honesty.   
His eyes strayed to the man on the other side of the fire. Perhaps home could even be a person. Two glowing eyes and a heartbeat. Someone who could offer you everything a home needed - compassion, asylum and candour. Home was the feeling of being whole.

“Jaskier? Are you alright?” 

Jaskier came back to reality after realising he’d been staring off into space in uncharacteristic silence for several minutes. Practically unheard of. 

“Of course, dear heart. Pensive in the face of verity.” 

Geralt raised his eyebrows for the briefest of moments. It was difficult to tell if it was concern or simply amusement that played in the creases of his eyes. 

“Never a straight answer with you, is it?” 

“There’s not a straight thing about me, and you of all people should know that.” 

Geralt moved to respond, thought better of it, and fell silent. It seemed his lips were trying and failing to form a question before electing to leave that thought for another time. 

“Don’t be up too late, bard.” He intoned, not unkindly. “Can’t have you oversleeping come morning. We need to get moving before the rain moves in.” 

Jaskier didn’t even think to ask how the witcher would know this, but took his word as gospel. The ways of the white wolf were beyond his comprehension, he was aware, but he trusted them implicitly. He trusted him implicitly. 

“Fret not, dear heart. I’ve all but reached my conclusion, and my mind has settled for the night.” 

“And where might that be?” 

Across the fire, in the amber light that turned Geralt’s eyes into pools of honey, Jaskier smiled. Sincerity and genuine warmth soothed his heart. Safety. Familiarity. Honesty. Even in the middle of nowhere, days away from the nearest town, in the open air with nought but the clothes on his back and a pack he was using as a pillow. He wasn’t sure the last time he’d felt so whole. 

“I am home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one this time, because this prompt was an odd one for me to think too long on.


	6. Secrecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt looks for work. Work looks for him. A previous kindness comes back to bite him.

Geralt awoke the next morning in a split second of confusion. Where was he? Why did he feel trapped? Why was he so warm? 

A glance around the room answered the first question - the inn. Still comfortable in his bed on the second floor of the Hog and Truffle. The room was aglow with morning light, filtering through the window at such an angle that the end of the bed was in a sunbeam, but his light sensitive eyes were spared its glare.   
He looked down to see what had confined him. A man’s arm encircled his lower ribs, hand splayed on the mattress level with his sternum. It was gentle, resting, decorated by fine dark hairs and freckles. 

Not paid company, then. Staying the night would have cost him extra. 

Geralt mused for but a moment on how to twist his head around without disturbing the man in his bed. No, not his own bed - it was he who was in Jaskier’s bed. 

He pulled a face that was somewhere between a smirk and a grimace as he untangled himself. The bard had clearly flipped over during the night, and operating on instinct alone drew the warmth the witcher provided closer to him. It was incredibly unlikely he’d done so intentionally, Geralt told himself, and slipped out as gently as he could to avoid alerting Jaskier to his mistake. Best let sleeping bards lie and keep it a secret. 

Jaskier barely made a sound as Geralt rose and was still embroiled in the blanket he’d laid claim to the night before. His mouth hung slightly open, face a mask of serenity and childlike slumber. He would not wake for some time yet.   
The witcher shook himself back to movement and tugged his boots on silently. A clay pitcher of water sat on the nightstand with a matching cup beside it. He poured himself some, took it in, then refilling it to leave it within arms reach of Jaskier. Divines only knew the state he would wake up in after how much he’d had to drink the night before. 

The door closed behind him with barely a click as he left to move downstairs. The city was waking up in the middle distance, voices from the market trickling through the walls and the bells tolling from the nearby temples calling the truly devout for morning prayers. The rest of the inn, mercifully, was silent. 

The hearth in the main room downstairs had been swept clean. A fresh fire was yet to be relaid, but the scent of ash hung gently in the air and dusted the flagstones like fine snow. For want of something to do before Jaskier awoke, Geralt reviewed his options. He could sit in the room and enjoy the peace before the day started without him. He could make himself useful and relay the fire, but with the mild spring air it seemed superfluous.   
A third option beckoned, which was to scout out any work within the city that might require a witcher. A chance to make good on the promise he’d made the day before to replenish their funds. Plus, who knew how much more he’d be able to get done without the natural disaster that took human form in Jaskier following at his heels… 

Geralt followed his intuition through the back door, which led to a small courtyard where supplies could be dropped off for the inn’s cellars and stores, as well as a small stable. There were three stalls in all - one empty, one home to a magnificent black mare with a coat that gleamed in the morning light, and the third holding a rather jealous looking Roach. She whickered a greeting as Geralt ran his hands over her flanks, checking she had enough hay in the wall mounted cage before her and relaying the news from the day before. He told her of their new supplies, the mage with no bed, and their money woes. 

“It’s not the first time this line of work has left us a little short, is it?”   
Roach head butted him in response, which he took to mean something supportive such as ‘We’ve had worse’ or maybe even ‘Don’t fret’. It was nice to attach human emotions to an animal who couldn’t talk back. 

“Yeah, well. Don’t say anything, but it might be a way to save money in the future. Share a room with the bard. Halves the cost, and saves on firewood. Even if the man does snore.”  
She treated him to a look that made it clear on no uncertain terms that he was a far worse offender when it came to snoring, but promised to keep it a secret. He thumped her shoulder twice and nodded, moving to depart for the city square. 

“Try to keep yourself out of trouble.”   
A swish of her tail told him ‘you too’. 

Perhaps an hour later, Geralt sat back at the Hog and Truffle with various weather beaten pieces of parchment before him. The place was slowly coming to life around him, with porridge warming on a brand new fire and a pot of sage and barley tea stewing beside it. Geralt was already on his second cup, feeling the warmth spread through his chest like a flower in bloom.  
Looking at the spread before him it became apparent that jobs were hardly the most exciting or high stakes in somewhere this civilised. No wild gryphons, no foglets, no nests or hags. That being said, there was easily enough to keep him busy for a week. The odd missing sailor, noises in a graveyard, even something disgusting lurking in a disused warehouse towards the docks. The latter sounded the most promising, and the witcher was already planning his morning route to take him by address listed and investigate for anything more helpful than what was already listed.   
A shape eclipsed the window, casting a shadow over the papers before him. He looked up, expecting to see the innkeeper's niece. 

“Is this seat taken?” A playful lilt asked. He arched an eyebrow at the mage from the night before. She was far less on edge than she had been on their last meeting, a coy smile playing on one side of her mouth. Geralt said nothing, but made a hand gesture towards the empty bench before him that said ‘be my guest’. 

She nodded once before sitting, taking great care not to tangle her skirts around the table legs. The outfit she wore today was a light blue affair, with grey brocade and laces. The blue matched a series of gems she had adorning her flaxen hair, which hung half tied up and brushed the prominence of her collar bones.   
“How were the stables in the end?” She picked up one of the pieces of paper idly. Geralt suppressed a sigh. Clearly the universe was at odds with the idea of him having a quiet breakfast. 

“My travelling companion was kind enough to share his room. The stables here are clean enough, but there’s something about four walls and a roof that beats the smell of horse apples in the morning.”   
The mage chuckled. The sound was nice enough, but after seeing her frustration the night before it sounded hollow.   
“Indeed. My horse seems to have survived the night, so perhaps she’s a hardier breed than you, master witcher.” 

“That was your beast, then? The black mare?” 

“Well, it’s certainly not the brown nag who looks like she’d fall over in a stiff breeze.” 

“She’s called Roach. And she is sturdier than she looks.” Geralt took a perverse pleasure in watching her face twitch as she realised her faux pas. He heard her mentally shift gears, and the hollow smile was back. 

“Well, master witcher, I wonder if the same can be said for you? Seems you’re looking for work.”

“It might seem that way.” Never give a mage a straight answer. That was something he’d learned long ago. Never let them corner you into saying something you couldn’t commit to. 

“It just so happens I may have a need for someone of your… disposition.” Her beautifully tapered fingers danced over the tabletop as she read the pages upside down until she found what she was looking for. “I see there’s a job nearer the docks. Folks going missing, cargo too. You can guess which one the harbour master is more concerned about.” 

“What’s it to you?” He folded his arms across his chest, forming some kind of barrier between them. He’d tangled with mages before, each one creating a greater mess than the last. 

“Amongst the cargo that’s gone astray, there was a box. A pretty thing, perhaps the length of your forearm.” She reached across as if to trail her fingers across his wrist, only to reconsider when he moved back. Her hands moved back towards herself. 

“A box?” 

“Indeed. A jewelry box, more of sentimental value than anything else.” Geralt took a sip of his tea and regarded her across the brim. He wondered if she was lying. 

“I could see about finding a box. I can’t promise you anything - if it’s drowners beneath the docks, no telling what state it could be in. Might be nothing but kindling by now.” 

“I assure you, it will be in one piece.” There was a sharpness in her tone that broached no argument. “All I ask is that when you go and take care of this pest problem -” Her fingers drummed the relevant paper for emphasis. “You keep an eye out for my dear trinket box. I’ll pay you a lovely finders fee should you do so. Of your choice.” 

“I only work in coin, not in favours. I’ve been fucked over by mages before. No offense.” 

“Marvellous. You’ll understand that I won’t pay you a crown until I have the box in my hands. No offense.” 

Geralt felt the corner of his mouth twitch in a half smile. 

“My contractors also need to provide me with their name before I can work for them. For tax reasons, of course.” 

“Of course. You can call me Collete. And you are?” 

“Geralt. Of Rivia. I’ll talk to my companion when he awakens and we’ll see about finding your trinket box.”

“You have my thanks, Geralt of Rivia.” Collete tipped a smile, and before he could break eye contact she had her hand back on his wrist; thumb resting just so against his pulse point. “I don’t think you’re going to want to tell anyone about my little favour. Secrecy is my cornerstone. You’re going to keep it to yourself, and you will not write of it, speak of it, or in any way allude to what I have asked of you. Are we clear?” 

Geralt’s medallion thrummed as the spell wove around his wrist, invisible lines of chaos snaking together to form a braid that moved up his arm and across his throat. For the briefest moment there was the suggestion of pressure, of the gentlest choking grasp around his windpipe. Without warning it would have raised his hackles. The look of intensity on Collete’s face, however, bore into him and drew the smallest of gasps from his lips. She gave a wry smile before turning to see Jaskier descending the stairs to enter the room. With a final look to Geralt, she inclined her head and moved to her feet. 

The witcher debated calling out, struggling against the spell she had put on him, but decided against it. Easiest way to break a curse was to ask for it to be lifted, or kill the mage that had cast it. He’d save the latter for if the former didn’t work. He settled for narrowing his eyes at her as she turned and left. 

“Where’ve you been? How do you look so fresh?” Jaskier hummed from behind his hand. His hair was delightfully sleep mussed, and stuck up at an odd angle on one side of his head. The bench gave the gentlest of scrapes as the bard sat himself down looking only marginally worse for wear. Geralt found his irritation at the mage fading. 

“I’ve found some jobs. Once you’ve eaten, we’ll go scope some of these places out to see what I’m dealing with.” 

“A plan if I ever heard one.” Jaskier grunted and flagged down the serving boy that had collected plates the night before. Mere moments later, they had healthy servings of porridge before the pair of them and were tucking in with fervour. 

“What did the witch want with you?” He asked between bites. Geralt shook his head. 

“Something about one - She asked me to - a job near the -” He struggled to get the words out, but felt the threads of chaos constrict around his windpipe every time he tried. Jaskier stared at him in confusion. 

“Cat got your tongue?” 

“Sort of.” Geralt gave up and huffed a disgruntled noise. He waved his free hand vaguely at his neck. “I can’t tell you. She’s got a way of keeping me quiet about - fuck, that’s annoying.” 

“She’s hexed you specifically so you can’t tell anyone? That’s… well, I mean, that’s frighteningly clever for a start. A dick move if you ask me, but there’s a thought process behind that. How interesti-” 

“Jask.” 

“Right, yes. Hmm. Well, I suppose I’ll just have to tag along with you until I figure out what it is.” The younger man brightened up with every passing mouthful, returning to his normal self. Geralt could do nothing but groan. 

“It’s magic that literally stops me from talking. Isn’t that the opposite of what you want from me? Hard to write epic ballads when the subject is mute.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong, dear heart.” The bard waved his spoon in the air for emphasis. “Because you’re being forced into silence for a secret. And there’s nothing sexier than secrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got momentum back up and running!


	7. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt chases information on a contract. Jaskier shows him a shortcut. Thoughts stray to a simpler life.

It was a simple plan. They would go first to the warehouse district, then use it as a roundabout way to get to the docks. 

“The scenic route!” Jaskier beamed. 

“We need to revisit your definition of the word scenic.” Geralt had said curtly, but broached no further protest as the pair readied to leave for the day. They booked themselves in for the rest of the week, the innkeeper seemingly indifferent to having them on the property for another six nights. 

“I’ll feed you as best I can, as long as you keep up the nightly performances. Doesn’t hurt having your witcher friend on the end of my bar, either. Keeps the riff raff away.” Jaskier allowed himself a smile at the thought of Geralt being his witcher. As if Geralt could belong to anyone. 

“Your generosity shall be repaid in kind, good sir.” Jaskier touched his finger to his forelock and bowed. “Make no mistake, we shall more than earn our keep!” 

His niece - Leah, he learned her name was - giggled and stared after him as the pair departed. 

“See you tonight!” She waved after him, spilling a cup of soup down herself as she did so. Jaskier pretended not to notice and gave her a cheery wave as he followed just behind Geralt out of the building. 

“If we could focus on the task at hand, please.” Geralty intoned from ahead as Jaskier tilted his head back to appreciate the daylight upon his face. The bard sighed. 

“Just because you’ve been awake since the crack of dawn, doesn’t mean we all have. Let a man appreciate the warmth of the sun’s kiss on his face before delving - Geralt! Wait up!” 

It was not difficult to catch up after the witcher through the crowds. Despite his two signature and scary looking swords still being in their (apparently shared) room, Geralt’s shock of white hair and broad gait set him apart from the others around him. People seemed to give him a wide berth as he stalked the streets on his own. 

“Someday you’ll learn to keep up.” Despite his best efforts to sound friendly his words came out gruffer than expected. Jaskier huffed indignantly. 

“Unlikely, with your pace. As if it weren’t bad enough you won’t let me ride Roach, now you drag me around like this…” 

“There’s no dragging here, bard. You’re free to go back to the inn whilst I earn an honest living.” 

“Ooh, that was pointed. What’s got your britches in a twist?”   
Geralt was silent for long enough that Jaskier debated asking the same question again, but he relented and turned to the bard with a grimace.

“I don’t like being cursed. Don’t need to explain why.”

Jaskier went to touch his arm, then thought better of it. His witcher had not taken too kindly to the same contact the day before in the market, best not to push his luck now when his mood was even worse. 

“Of course, dear heart. Is it worth going back and letting me give the witch a piece of my mind? A firm tongue lashing should set her straight. Anything to defend your honour. Make her withdraw her hold on you, tell her to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, and I’ll get Leah to serve her burnt soup from now on. Do mages even eat? Or do they simply sustain themselves on the blood of the innocent and the annoyance of those who are trying to help them?” 

Jaskier rambled on and almost imperceptibly noticed the harshness of Geralt’s demeanor diminishing. His irritation was palpable still, but no longer soured the air. His pace slowed enough for Jaskier to keep up without tripping. 

“As much as I would pay to see that, Jask, we’ve got bigger problems today. Another time perhaps.” The knot in his stomach uncurled at the nickname. He hadn’t dreamt it after all. Jask. 

“My offer stands. The witch won’t know peace if she dares sully you further. I have your back, through thick and thin.” 

“By the Divines,” He said dryly. “She won’t know what hit her.”

The streets grew both emptier and fuller as they continued. There were fewer people, but they were replaced by horses and ox pulling carts, and wagons laden with goods to be transported between the market and the docks. Jaskier ducked and dodged with every step, Geralt settling for simply glaring at people that got in his way. 

A cacophony of braying - both animal and human - came from ahead. A tangle of wood and livestock showed a collision of some form, effectively blocking the road from every angle. Geralt went to press on, content to glare at people to let him pass if necessary, but was interrupted by Jaskier’s hand closing around his own. His suprise at the contact was closely follwed by marvelling at the speed at which the heat from the younger man's hand seeped through his very bones.

“This way. There’s a shortcut.” The bard said nothing more and maintained his grip to lead the witcher down a side street, hidden behind a man weaving a fishing net. Geralt could do nothing but follow in his wake. He trusted Jaskier to guide him until he was back in familiar territory, reminding himself that the younger man had spent at least a few years more than him in the city - he’d probably run down these streets evading chaperones and guards alike. The thought of this made him smile.

The route started simply enough; a left here, a right there. It span strangely before long and Geralt, for all his insight and experience with the city, found himself well any truly lost. Although the midday sun hung high in the sky, it seemed to vanish behind tall buildings and flit behind chimneys as the narrow alleys snaked beneath their feet. Despite the new experience, Geralt found himself calm, and unfazed. Jaskier was still holding onto his hand, somewhere between guiding and leading, and the warmth of his skin against his palm anchored him in a way no weight could. The bard knew where they were going. He was safe.

Unbidden, the thought of this under a different context entered his head. The thought of Jaskier in his school days, leading him down a side alley, hand in hand, escaping from other students in the midst of a prank. Not as a witcher, but as a student. A stableman. Something else. Maybe even anything else - a simple life. A simple life where he could smile as he slipped through the streets without eyes on his back and whispers in his ears. Where he could do this every day for the sheer glee of running hand in hand with - 

It wasn't until Jaskier tugged him through an opening in a wooden fence twice the height of either of them the Geralt for his sense of direction back. They were in an area of the district that specialised in meats; curing, preparing, smoking, storing, the works. Geralt managed a silent prayer of thanks that their path hadn't taken them near any tanners. 

"Hand, Jaskier." 

"Oh? Oh!" The bard dropped the larger man's hand, playing it off with a short bow. "Pleasure to have you on the tour de Oxenfurt. Recommend us to your friends any time.” He twirled from the bow back to his previously boyish gait. 

“You’d make a terrible tour guide. You get distracted by the strangest of things.” 

“Good sir, I resent that remark! I would make an excellent guide. The greatest merchants, the noblest houses, the finest sights -” Jaskier punctuated his statement by tragically slipping on goat shit. Geralt had his wits about him enough to catch the bard as he stumbled, narrowly avoiding being taken down as well. 

“You certainly have flair Jask, but not even you can pull off a shit stain.” His words were scathing, but his eyes crinkled with mirth. Jaskier seemed to stumble again and leaned more heavily on Geralt’s arm. They shared a chuckle and Jaskier lacked the shame to even look remotely sheepish as he was steadied. 

“Yes well. Can’t be perfect all the time.” They rejoined the main street, leaving the relative calm of the alleyway behind them in favour of working their way towards the eastern section of the district. 

Geralt quashed the urge to lead and settled on a pace that made it easier for Jaskier to keep up with him. After perhaps another ten minutes of searching they found a warehouse that matched the name etched on the scrap of paper Geralt had in his pocket. With a sigh, the witcher took a breath and forced his stony exterior to reform from where it had previously melted. It was time to work. And as much as he denied any part of him wanted for a normal life, the spark of joy in his gut extinguished. 

Nothing could ever be that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the HMS Fluff. I will be your captain, but I'm barely sober at this incredibly skittish helm.


	8. Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier watches his muse at work. Geralt forms a plan for their newest foe. Eyes are in short supply.

It was endlessly fascinating, Jaskier thought, watching his muse at work. 

He’d never been stuck for inspiration - as Geralt had noted, all too often, he could wax lyrical about the briefest moment. He could find something worth saying about the sensation of silk passing over smooth skin, the refraction of light through both sides of a wine glass, even the barest sound one would make by parting the chapped lips of their lover with their own…

Well. Perhaps he hadn’t used those exact words, but Jaskier was sure he meant it that way. Surely. Maybe he would ask, when Geralt was next in a good mood, and find out exactly what the witcher thought of his works.

Ah. His work. Geralt’s own work was occurring before his eyes, and he was distracted by his own thoughts. The witcher was listening intently to the words of a warehouse worker, Symon, one who had witnessed some strange creature scrabbling about in the dark a few nights ago. It had torn apart some crates along the western wall before being chased off by the nightwatchman, who’d promptly pissed himself as soon as the creature turned on him. The worker had been up on the platform used for conducting the crane and had escaped the creature’s notice, but had seen enough to empathise with the nightwatchman. 

Jaskier diligently made notes in the weatherbeaten pages of his notebook until something Symon said made him pause. 

“I’m sorry, how many eyes?” 

“One. One… huge eye.” Symon stammered, holding his hands out in front of him to form an open circle with his fingers. “Shone like nothing I’d ever seen. Felt like it could have stared into my soul and torn me a new arsehole through my kneecaps. With the size of its claws, it probably wouldn’t even break a sweat. That thing had spines the length of my arm too.” 

“Spines? Claws? One eye? Geralt, this man can’t be telling the truth. This is ludicrous, I’ve never heard of something like this -”

“Quiet.” Geralt didn’t break eye contact with Symon, silencing the bard with a word and a simple gesture of his fingers. Jaskier obeyed. 

“This is true, what you saw here? Three nights ago?” 

“That it is, master witcher.” 

“And has it been back since?” 

“Nosir. Folks have been too afraid to go back after dark.”

“Hmm.”  
Jaskier’s gaze switched between the men. Symon was practically shaking in his boots, a dirty rag twisting between his hands as if it was a visual representation of the knots in his gut. Geralt, conversely, stood perfectly still. He regarded Symon with cool interest that stretched on for an agonising length of time. 

“Alright. I’ll take the job. Have everyone out of here after dark tonight. I’m going to take another look around, and I’ll be back later. Take care, Symon.”

“And you, master witcher. Divines be with you.”

“Hmm.” 

The pair bade Symon farewell and made their way towards the area of the warehouse in question. Geralt took his time, flexing his fingers to better feel the currents of the air and the temperature fluctuations within the building. Jaskier kept his eyes up, smiling innocuously at the clearly unsettled workers. 

“So it’s real then? The one eyed thing?” 

“Seems so. He was telling the truth, and it does match stories that have come about more recently.” 

“A… a new monster?” Jaskier stammered, barely acknowledging the look of disdain Geralt shot him at the volume. “What are even the odds of that?”

“Not as rare as you think. Walk the lands for long enough, something new is sure to come about sooner or later.” 

For a moment, Geralt could swear he heard the bard take a short inhale of trying to keep his mouth shut, but as soon as he noticed he felt a sliver of arcane residue across the floor. It was like a greasy film, like a poorly rinsed pan, oily and shining. 

He cast his gaze wider, noting fragments of wood scattered across the back wall. The angle of the fall, the direction of the force behind it, the splinters… 

“Geralt? What is it?” 

“Magic. There was something magic here, and the creature was looking for it. Clawed its way into a crate… But I don’t know if it found it. It’s strong, but unsure. It’s definitely looking specifically for something. This isn’t wanton destruction.”

“But what is it, Geralt? What do you mean it’s looking for something?” 

“Not now, bard.” 

“Right right, not in front of the commoners…” 

Geralt ignored him and knelt beside a crate with a panel missing. Clearly whatever had made such a mess had only gone for this box, which stood perhaps four feet high and just as wide. The contents were at first glance inconsequential - clothes, robes, bundles of pottery wrapped in straw. Clearly a domestic parcel rather than a merchant’s goods. 

A fragment of parchment caught his eye, and upon turning it over it became obvious it was a page torn out of a book. Yellow with age and depicting a transmutation circle fringed with alchemical symbols. Geralt narrowed his eyes and sniffed. The creature had definitely come into contact with it before casting it aside. There were no other books or even pages in the vicinity, save that singular scrap. 

“I’ve got what we need. We can go now.” He snatched up the page to stuff in a side pouch. Jaskier snapped his head around and struggled to keep up with the witcher as he strode for the street outside. 

“What is it? Geralt, if you don’t talk to me I swear I’ll make you sleep in the stable.” 

Geralt, despite himself, found an unbidden snort slip through his nose at the bard’s tone. He cleared his throat to cover the sound. Nice recovery. 

“It’s a Nothic - a monster made with magic. They start off as a normal human - a mage, but human nonetheless. A Nothic is what a mage becomes when their lust for power overtakes their senses. They become mad, obsessed, and try to extract arcane knowledge from anywhere they can.”

“And there was something magical in the warehouse?”

“In that crate. I found part of a spellbook in there,” He punctuated the statement by holding the page between two fingers, which Jaskier took. “Clearly whoever the crate belongs to had something of interest in there. It’s long since made off with it, it’s unlikely it’ll go back before they get a new shipment.”

Their progress took them through the streets with Geralt leading. He took them back in the direction of the inn, lacking the same power as their initial journey that permitted them to walk the main streets instead of diving through back alleyways. It was no less busy, but with less haste necessary he found himself not minding. Jaskier examined the etchings upon the page and gave a low whistle. 

“A Nothic... And you got all of that from part of a book?”

“There’s hardly a wealth of creatures roaming the continent with only one eye. Sort of narrowed it down.” 

“Amazing.” The bard gaped and for a blessed handful of seconds was speechless. “So what do we do now?” 

“We need to deal with it before we handle the situation for Collete. If we wander through the city with her -” Geralt’s tone became strangled as he felt the threads of chaos wrap around his throat. The strands tightened as his thoughts drew on, cutting him off mid sentence as if with a knife. He grunted more out of frustration than protest and sighed. “I fucking hate mages.” 

“Aha! So her quest has something magical. That means… well.” Jaskier gave a sigh. “That could mean anything. Maddeningly unhelpful. Remind me to be frightfully rude to her, I cannot stand my muse not being able to convey their schemes to me.”

“A true transgression to your craft, I’m sure.”

“Geralt if your tone was any drier I’d mistake you for a summer drought in Dol Blathanna. You must have a plan cooking in that beautiful head of yours, so let’s start with that. What can you tell me?”

“I’ll need a plan. To track this would be folly - there’s no knowing what tricks it’ll have up its sleeve or what it’ll do if it senses I’m following it. I’ll clear the warehouse, set a trap, and dispatch it. As easy as falling off a log.” 

The Hog and Truffle slid into view from behind a red tapestry of a stall selling honey roasted almonds. The day was in full swing, threatening to capture Jaskier’s attention with every new scent and twirl of fabric. It dawned on Geralt that perhaps he gave the bard too little credit as his gaze swung back towards him with a startling level of insight behind his cornflower blue eyes. 

“I shan’t pretend to be as well versed as you are in these affairs, but why do I feel like you’re lying? What aren’t you telling me?” 

“Well Jask.” Geralt clapped his companion on the shoulder as they moved through the inn’s door. “That’s because I haven’t told you what we’ll be using as bait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Forgotten Realms sues my ass then let the record show I would fucking do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> First work published on this site, please be kind! 
> 
> I'll try to update as regularly as I can and shall be committing to the full 31. Tags will be edited as we go!
> 
> Kudos are beauty, comments are love, and you are brilliant. Take care!


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